"And who usually goes off alone?"
"Who?"
"You! Remember when you sneaked Grandpa's boat and went to Assateague all alone?"
"Oh, that! That was no place for a girl."
"Stop it!" Grandpa shouted. He gave Maureen a gentle spank, then turned to Paul. "We've got all the makings here. You and Maureen fix a hot mash for Misty. I'll wade over to the hay house and see to Watch Eyes and Billy Blaze and the mares. You two wait for me here."
Later, at breakfast, Paul started to tell Grandma about her chicks, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. She was spooning up the porridge, trying to hide her fears with nervous chatter. "As you said, children, there's a time to go to school and a time to stay home. Well, this-here is the time to stay home. I won't have you going out again and catchin' the bad pneumonia."
"Guess ye're right, Idy," Grandpa agreed.
Paul and Maureen merely nodded. For once, a holiday from school did not seem attractive. They ate in silence.
"I've a good mind to feed you sawdust after this," Grandma went on. "Not a one of ye would know the difference."
Halfway through, Grandpa pushed his bowl of porridge aside. "It's stickin' in my gullet," he said. He got up from the table and stood over the stove, flexing his fingers. "Any way ye look at it," he sighed heavily, "we're bad off. Our old scow tore loose in the night—it's gone. And likely our ninety head up to Deep Hole are gone, too." His body shivered. "But even so," he added quietly, "we're lucky."